The Wedding Dress

1

Hetty

"So, what do you think?" I ask, stepping out of the dressing room while looking down at the price tag. This dress with a pattern of bright red posies is so pretty but so expensive. I don't really have the money for something extravagant, but I want to look nice for my stepsister's wedding. I'm not a part of the wedding party. Only Neva's daughter will stand beside her. She's walking herself down the aisle, symbolically giving herself away.

"I think you're the prettiest thing I've ever seen." The rugged male tenor is not the voice I expected to reply to my question. I am shopping with Pearl at a little boutique down in Elton, about twenty minutes from our hometown of Blue Ridge.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were—" My words falter as I glance up to see one of the largest men I've ever seen. Solid in both shoulder width and belly, he easily stands six feet plus. His jaw holds a heavy salt-and-pepper beard that matches the mixed coloring of hair on his head. His eyes are a deep brown, reminding me of chestnuts and looking just as hard. His smile doesn't match the lack of gleam in his eyes. One corner of his lips crooks upward, like the hook at the end of a fishing line. That smile has caught many women, I suspect, and my shoulders fall at the pretty words he fed me.

"I'm sorry. I thought you were someone else." My gaze lowers for the hanger in his hand. The outfit dangling from it is red and lacy, transparent and skimpy. One of my brows arches as he'd told me I was the prettiest thing he'd ever seen while holding on to lingerie that would leave nothing to the imagination.

"For my mother," he says, lifting the spaghetti strap nightie higher against his chest, which reminds me of a whiskey barrel, though not as wide. His black tee coordinates with his black leather vest and black jeans. A silver chain dangles from his belt to his pocket, and tattoos cover every inch of his forearms. He isn't pretty. He is mouth-watering, and everything opposite I am attracted to.

"Your mother has interesting tastes," I mutter before returning to the dressing room as Pearl seems to have disappeared. The curtain falls between the man and me. Turning away from him, I hear the clink of a metal hanger slapping on the clothing rack. As I reach for the zipper that I'd previously struggled to pull up on the back of the dress, the curtain tips open, and the mass of masculinity enters the small space.

"Allow me," he says, his rumbly voice dipping, sounding more like a low growl with the suggestion. Thick fingertips brush aside my long hair. The swipe of his roughened fingers skitter over my upper back, and I shiver.

I know this man. However, I've never seen him this up close and personal.

He goes by Bear.

I wouldn't say I'm a stalker; we just have similar schedules. The diner on Wednesday mornings where he lingers over coffee and the local paper, and I have two scrambled eggs, two slices of bacon, and hot tea. Tom's Grocery on Mondays an hour before they close because everyone knows Monday is stocking day, and late-night shopping is the only time I have to weekly shop. And then on Thursdays, when I return to the diner in the evening for the chicken salad special. He's always lingering on the street out front as I'm entering. I seem to notice him everywhere, like a magnetic force tugging at my eye and a neon sign pointing out: he's over there.

He never looks at me, though.

If he had, I might have given him a nod, a smile, or a slight wave of solidarity.

Yay for singlehood and late-night grocery shoppers everywhere.

He's also a member of Rebel's Edge, a motorcycle club located up the mountain. While they aren't exactly trouble for our small town, their presence offers suspicion. People talk. Gossip lingers. And the likes of him would never be interested in the likes of me, despite what he's suggesting.

"This is inappropriate," I state, turning to face him, finding all my bravado lacking as his closeness reinforces his large stature. With my quick spin, his fingers skim across my chest with our nearness. My traitorous nipples pebble under the accidental touch when I should be screaming in outrage. I should be telling him to get out, but I don't say anything. Not even a squeak leaves my mouth. I'm not afraid of him.

"Can think of a few things more inappropriate than helping you out of that dress, which I wouldn't be opposed to doing."

Mustering my best Southern drawl, I remark, "Why, I never—"

"I suspect you should."

My mouth gapes. He can't be suggesting what I think he is.

Those rich, earthy eyes drop their gaze to the swell of my breasts, heaving a bit by his proximity and the fact his fingertips are still posed against my skin over my cleavage. I step back, but there's nowhere to go, so I collide with the mirror behind me. I should feel threatened, but strangely, I don't. His presence and implication turn me on. Despite not knowing him, he's filled my deep, dark fantasies on several occasions. Would he strip me out of this dress? Would he take me against this mirror? Would he make me watch us? Would we be caught by the sales clerk?

As if reading my thoughts, his brows lift, and that crooked curl of his lip turns into a knowing smirk. "Want me to be inappropriate?"

Sweet buttercream frosting, he's forward.

"You were just shopping for lingerie for your mother." If I thought the sexy item was really intended for his mama, I might throw up a little bit in my mouth but sensing the prowess of this man and the sexual energy vibrating off him, I know better. He was shopping for a gift. For another woman.

"We both know that ain't true."

"And we both know you need to get out of this dressing room."

"Do I?" He leans forward just the slightest bit, and I tip my head back. He's playing with me— lion with a mouse—or in his case, more like a bear toying with a squirrel.

"Yes." Something in my eyes must tell him to back up because he takes a giant step away from me. But he doesn't leave. Instead, he lingers, holding up his hands in surrender.

"Got the wrong read," he mutters, dropping his gaze down my body like he's scanning a road map, taking in the hills and valleys, and let us not forget the sharp peak of my nipples pointed at him through the filmy material of this dress. His gaze swipes back up my frame. "Whatcha buying a dress for, flower?"

My fingers curl into a fist and land against my sternum as I try to cover said nipples. "A wedding."

His head tilts, glancing at my left hand. "Getting married?" The question in his eyes says he doesn't really think it's me, and my shoulders sag a little. Of course, it isn't me. I'm not the lovely, alluring Neva. I'm happy for my stepsister. She deserves this moment, but it's still disheartening that she's getting married before me, and I'm ten years older than her.

"My stepsister," I say, turning my head away from his penetrating gaze. "But I don't think this is the dress for me." The fabric is divine—wispy and flowing—and the fit is perfect with the thicker straps but jutting neckline. The material cinches at the waist and then flares over my hips with a slight fullness, dropping just below my knees. Appropriate and tasteful for the sister of the bride. But the price? It's too much. Not to mention, I'm not certain I can wear this dress now without thinking of this strange encounter in a dressing room. His touch will linger over my skin whenever I slip into the material. The images running through my head of him pressing my cheek against the mirror, lifting the back of my dress, and pistoning into me will run on repeat, and I don't need that kind of video montage during a wedding.

"Why not?" His warm chestnut-colored eyes rake over me once more.

"I can't . . ." I pause. The reason I'm not purchasing this thing is none of his business. "It isn't for me."

He tilts his head again, considering my answer, then turns and exits the dressing room without a word.

I sag back against the mirror, feeling myself slipping a little against the cool glass, and release a deep breath I hadn't realized I'd been holding. My heart flutters. My belly flips. Did this really happen to me?

Shaking my head, I let out a squeaky giggle, sounding like an anxious teen more than a woman of forty-five. Turning to face the mirror, I narrow my eyes, accentuating the fine lines near the corners. My smile is weak, but my pupils are huge. Black nearly eclipses the blue underneath. I huff, shaking my head once more at the strangeness of this encounter.

Then I dismiss it.

A man like him would not be interested in someone like me, respectable Hetty Kincaid, owner of Hetty's Flower Shop. I'm the local florist and have the pleasure of decorating for Neva's wedding. Getting my head wrapped back around all the things I need to do for her special day, I struggle to lower the zipper on my own and discourage any thoughts of allowing a bear-sized stranger to help me remove my dress . . . and do all the inappropriate things he had in his thoughts.